


Syracuse Won Handily

by LittleMousling



Series: HBIC [3]
Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: Bratting, Domestic Fluff, Idiots in Love, M/M, Paddling, punishment kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-23 10:22:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11987838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMousling/pseuds/LittleMousling
Summary: Tommy wants to watch some NCAA quarterfinals. Jon wants to be a brat. They work it out.





	Syracuse Won Handily

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [fiddleyoumust](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fiddleyoumust/pseuds/fiddleyoumust) for the plot idea!
> 
> Please be thoughtful about where you link, using full (searchable) names, etc--thank you! The fourth wall thanks you!

“This is basically my Game of Thrones,” Tommy says, for maybe not the first or third or fourteenth time. “You have to actually be quiet.” 

“I’m silent as the grave,” Jon says, not at all silently. “I’m the quietest human on the planet.”

Tommy’s calling it 50-50 that he’s going to get to watch any of this game. He’s DVRing it; he’s lived with Jon too long not to pick his battles. “I should have sent you and Pundit to Shomik’s,” he says. “You could be playing with Kushi right now at any volume you want, and I could be watching this in actual silence.”

“You’d miss me,” Jon says. He still says things like that as jokes, with false bravado that make it obvious he’s not sure that Tommy really would. Tommy figures eventually—maybe in two or three decades—Jon’ll pick up on the fact that Tommy’s not going anywhere. He can wait it out. 

He is, however, definitely going to foist Jon off on Emily for the finals. Tommy can take a risk like this in the quarterfinals, but there are limits. 

“Sit,” Tommy says. Pundit looks up at him from her bed, and then ignores him. Jon, for once the more obedient Lovett, sits, and Tommy picks up a tamale and stuffs it most of the way into Jon’s mouth. “There we go.” 

Jon splutters, narrowing his eyes, but there’s a glint of amusement in there. Tommy’s either successfully made his point or else Jon is about to start bratting like nobody’s business. It’s still 50-50, in Tommy’s book.

“That team is Syracuse,” he tells Jon, as Jon munches his way through the tamale. “In the orange. They’re going to win.”

“Then why are we watching it?” Jon reaches for the remote, and Tommy slaps his hand.

Jon leaves the remote alone. Tommy turns the volume up. “C’mere,” he says, tugging Jon into his side. Jon’s not a natural cuddler, but he puts up with it from Tommy, most of the time. 

It’s still pre-game coverage, which Tommy should have predicted wouldn’t hold Jon’s attention well. “That guy knows Syracuse is going to win, too. Why even force the other team to play, at that point?”

“They like to play,” Tommy says. “It’s fun. They get to play a really good team and see how well they hold up.” 

“Ugh,” Jon says. “Ridiculous. Who wants to start something just to lose? I’d call in sick to that one.” 

“You managed to show up through the whole 2008 primary.” Tommy grabs a tamale for himself, which prevents him from seeing Jon’s immediate reaction to the joke, but he can hear the spluttering behind his head.

“Low blow,” Jon says, when Tommy’s upright again. “Anyway, aren’t these the kids who don’t get paid even though the league is ridiculously profitable? Aren’t we contributing to that injustice by watching this?”

Tommy’s impressed, despite himself, that Jon’s got some awareness of college sports. “It figures you only know the politics part. We can watch and then push for fair treatment later, how’s that? We can add it into Monday’s outline.” 

“Do you really think that’s an adequate response? We should turn it off. I really thought you cared about—” 

Tommy, annoyed for real now, puts a hand over Jon’s mouth. He’s mostly kidding about it, right up until Jon pulls it off to say, “Listen, your stupid sport—”

Okay. No longer 50-50. “Hands in your lap,” Tommy says, voice low. He hears the whistle on the TV behind him, but he doesn’t turn to watch the tip-off. He’s focused on Jon, who’s carefully and deliberately putting his hands behind his head, fingers threaded in a pose of faux relaxation. 

Well, what else are DVRs for, really, if not to let you watch Syracuse kick ass _after_ you take your boyfriend down and make him like it. 

Tommy doesn’t repeat himself. He just kicks a leg over Jon to settle on his knees across Jon’s thighs, and grabs Jon’s wrists. Yanking them down is harder than he’d expected; Jon’s been working out, and he’s got some pretty good upper body strength these days. Tommy’s not willing to lose, though, and Jon is. That makes a difference. 

That, and he ducks in and bites Jon’s lower lip, hard, startling him and letting Tommy more easily wrestle his arms down. He doesn’t let go, hands or teeth, until Jon’s stopped fighting him. 

“You’re such a brat,” Tommy says. He almost manages to keep the fondness out of his voice. “Just can’t keep yourself from misbehaving, can you?”

Jon starts to answer; Tommy doesn’t think he wants to hear it, so he shoves a few fingers into Jon’s mouth, at the cost of freeing one of Jon’s hands. It might not have been a smart bargain; with a hand free, Jon levers himself up, shoving Tommy sideways. Only Tommy’s grip on his other arm keeps him on the couch at all.

Tommy loves this couch. Jon knows how to buy a couch; it’s big and broad and cushy, and when Tommy throws all his weight into shoving Jon back down onto it, he knows neither of them is going to get hurt. He puts a forearm across Jon’s collarbones this time, almost at his throat. “No,” he says, very simply, and that does it—for now, at least. Jon’s face relaxes, lips parting, staring up at Tommy. He drops his grip of Tommy’s arm. 

“Just had to be the center of attention during the basketball, huh?” Tommy asks, reaching down to push Jon’s shirt up as far as it can go with Jon still pressed into the couch. It’s not very far—Tommy’s not taking his other arm away from Jon’s shoulders yet—but it’s enough to bare the soft skin of his sides to Tommy’s touch. 

Jon’s eyes close with the first pinch. Tommy makes it good, digging his fingers in and twisting. They’ve come to like this more than scratching; Tommy doesn’t have the nails for scratching. But this works. Two fingers on some bare skin, and Tommy can make Jon writhe and beg for more, or beg him to stop, or sometimes both at once. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Jon says, and Tommy inches his forearm, just a tiny bit, up towards his throat. Jon stops talking. 

Tommy lifts up from Jon’s hips long enough to reach down and rearrange Jon’s dick, mostly hard now, so he can go back to ignoring it for a while without worrying about sitting on it wrong. Jon’s half-swallowed whimper when he lets go is just as satisfying as Tommy was hoping it would be. He lets himself smirk down at Jon. 

“Yeah, no. You don’t get to interrupt my game and then get a nice fuck the way you want it.” He pinches lower, on the thinner skin over Jon’s hips, and Jon whines, forehead screwing up from the pain of it. “You can wait until I decide I want something from you.” 

Jon doesn’t say anything. “Good boy,” Tommy tells him, and it sends a shiver through him. He knows how much it turns Jon on—that was all, at first, the knowledge that Jon liked it, but now he associates it so strongly with this that it’s as hot for him as for Jon. 

There’s a cheer from the speakers. “Supposed to be watching basketball right now,” Tommy says, and pinches harder. 

Jon’s hips buck up, and Tommy moves his arm up again. He lets up the pressure—he’s not taking an actual risk with Jon’s throat—but he lets Jon feel it, resting there. 

“No moving.” 

Jon refused to give him stillness; Jon’s going to get stillness forced upon him. Tommy has come to believe firmly in punishments that fit the crime. 

The air’s too hot in here. Tommy’s lost the ability to breathe easily, or he gave it up when he threatened Jon’s breathing. Everything is tense, and tight, and Tommy wants to keep it just like this for as long as he can. Just Jon, still and desperate under him, taking everything Tommy can give him. 

He ducks his head to Jon’s nipple and bites it through his shirt. Balancing is tricky now—he can’t brace on his forearm anymore, his other hand’s still pinching Jon’s hip, and Tommy’s own cock is a distraction and a half. The announcer’s voice in the background barely registers amid the tumble of sensation. 

It’s nothing, any of this—his fingers, his teeth, his arm. He’s barely touching Jon, they’re fully dressed, and Tommy’s overwhelmed by it. The way Jon lets him do this. The way Jon _makes_ him do this, and trusts him to do it right and well and safely. It makes Tommy crazy to think that Jon used to do this with strangers, used to find men on an app to hold him down and fuck him. It’s the most intimate Tommy’s ever been with anyone, doing this with Jon. 

He sits up and eases his arm away from Jon’s throat, splays his hand across it instead, fingertips arrayed on Jon’s jaw. “You’re being very good,” he tells Jon. There’s a raucous cheer behind him as he says it, a goal celebration, and neither of them hold in a burst of laughter at the timing. “Not _that_ good,” Tommy amends. “I’ll tell you when you earn applause.” 

They’re both less in it, now, distracted, and Tommy supposes that’s a good chance to move things upstairs. He tells Pundit to stay, and pulls Jon off the couch. “Do I need to bring the tamales?” Tommy asks, and Jon mimes zipping his lips in answer. 

Tommy strips Jon once they’re upstairs. He does it slowly, giving Jon opportunities to revolt, but Jon’s settling back into that place where he goes with what Tommy wants. Tommy likes that place. Or—he likes knowing he put Jon into it, when Jon came out fighting. 

He’d like to see some more of that tonight. “You were supposed to be quiet,” he says, putting a finger under Jon’s chin. “I wanted to watch this game in peace, and you couldn’t just behave yourself.”

Jon swallows. He stays silent, which is nice for what it is, but Tommy asked for that silence half an hour ago. 

“I think you need to be reminded that acting out has consequences,” Tommy says, and already, he feels the fullness in his chest, the strange glowing satisfaction he gets from punishing Jon. “I think you can choose, though.” He sorts through the options in his own head, fast, before Jon can notice he’s pausing. “Paddle and you get to come, or hand and you don’t.” Simple but mean—that’s the way Tommy’s learned to like it. 

Jon looks like just the options are turning him on, which seems about right. “Paddle,” he says, after a long moment.

“Good boy,” Tommy says, and he knows he sounds—fucking carnivorous. “Get it.”

They have a couple of paddles, these days, but only one they use with any regularity, leather with a wooden handle. Tommy bought a much more vicious one three weeks ago, and he still hasn’t decided if he’s telling Jon about it or even keeping it. Sometimes he thinks about how this whole world of sex didn’t exist to him before Jon, and yet he worries he’ll spook Jon by being too into it. He knows it’s stupid. He’ll probably show him the paddle soon. But not just now. 

“Not gonna make it easy on you,” Tommy says, taking their usual paddle out of Jon’s hand. “Hands on the bed.”

Jon hate-loves this position. It’s easier on Tommy, but it’s—open, vulnerable, and he has to keep his knees and elbows from folding no matter how it feels. They’ve talked about it. They’ve talked about everything, it feels like. Sometimes Tommy thinks that’s his favorite thing about any of this, the debriefing and the quiet, honest conversations, the kind he didn’t really think Jon was capable of having. 

Jon’s opinion aside, Tommy loves looking at him like this—thighs, ass, back, arms, all of him on display for Tommy, open to Tommy’s use. Open for Tommy to touch and spank and pinch and torment. His pulse is loud in his ears, and he runs a hand down to his cock and cups it for a moment, breathing heavily, just _looking_. 

“Pretty boy,” he says, because it’s true and because he knows it will make Jon shiver and drop his head between his arms. “Brace yourself.”

Tommy practiced with this paddle before he ever used it on Jon. Not as much as with the belt, which they mostly don’t use anymore, but enough to be sure he could hit Jon where he wanted, and nowhere else. When they started this—when Jon gave him the vocabulary for it—Tommy stayed up late reading Dossie Easton and Janet Hardy and Jay Wiseman until he felt like there was a framework he could work within, rules he could follow. It didn’t give him confidence, but it let him fake it for a while, until it was really working, really flowing. 

So: it’s easy, now, to rub a hand over Jon’s ass, letting the friction yank him off balance, before Tommy smacks the paddle across it so Jon doesn’t have time to react. It’s easy to hit him again, low and inside, where Jon will feel it like a jolt in his lower belly, before he can catch his breath. It’s easy to spank him until just before Jon thinks to ask for a break, and stop, and make Jon think he’s got some kind of magical insight. “Not done yet,” he says, voice low, and pinches the soft, hot, red skin of Jon’s ass. Jon’s knees almost buckle, and his elbows do, until Jon’s pressing his face into his hands. 

Tommy decides to let him. He’s busy here, anyway, throwing the paddle down on the bed so he can prod and pinch and rub Jon’s skin with both hands, until Jon’s making hitching, wet noises. Jon’s mostly not moving, muscles tightening to hold him in place, just—gasping and sighing.

It feels like ages, in the best sense, that Tommy’s working him over like this before he feels that he can pick up the paddle again. 

Now, he thinks, they can have some fun. “You were so good,” he says, petting Jon’s flank, running a hand up his back. “Punishment’s over. This is just for us now, okay?”

“Okay,” Jon mumbles, and then, turning his head to smirk at Tommy, “Does that mean I get to lie down?”

“Nope,” Tommy says. He can’t keep the smile off his face. “I like you like this.” He runs a hand over Jon’s ass and Jon wriggles, shoulders coming up around his neck.

“That hurts, you know,” Jon says, and stretches his arms out. “Just in case you were wondering.” 

Tommy loves this maybe most of all—the after, giddy and easy and happy. Or the middle, really; he’s not done with Jon by a long shot. “Good,” he says. “That’s kind of what I’m going for.”

“Oh, well, as long as you’re sure,” Jon says, and shakes his ass in Tommy’s general direction. “You’re still holding that thing.” 

“Look at that, I am,” Tommy says, and swats him with it. He goes harder now, but with more pauses to scratch and pinch and tug on Jon’s skin, and to lean over Jon and kiss the parts of his face that Tommy can reach. “So fucking good.” He is—he’s fucking amazing, taking this for Tommy and loving it, rock-hard under his belly when Tommy curls a hand down to check on him. 

Tommy knows he’s getting it right when Jon starts giggling, laughter bursting out of him like he can’t stop it. Tommy has to fight his own laughs; Jon’s are infectious, even if Tommy’s not as filled with endorphins as Jon is right now. “Go on, let it out, babe,” Tommy tells him, and keeps hitting him until Jon’s laughing so hard he’s crying, tears streaming down his cheeks to his folded arms. He looks like Tommy feels, when Jon gets rolling on a good joke. He looks like the best parts of their life together, like the promise of a thousand happy days. 

“Fuck, I love you,” Tommy mutters, and tosses the paddle onto the carpet, pushes his briefs down and off. “Get up on the bed.”

Jon manages it, although his muscles aren’t all working quite right, and the giggles are impeding his focus. Tommy climbs up with him and tips him over onto his side long enough to get close and pull Jon up on top of him. “Could flip us and press your ass into the bed,” Tommy says, his breath catching just to think about it. “Could ride you like that. I bet you’d cry for real, it would hurt so much.”

Jon’s hips buck down towards Tommy’s, the laugh pausing in his throat. “You could,” he says, throaty. “Anything you want.” 

Right now what Tommy wants is to enjoy Jon’s endorphin high. He’ll push him closer to the limit another time. “I want it like this,” he says, wrapping a hand around Jon’s cock. He’ll grab the lube in a minute—neither of them like it dry—but just now he wants to tease Jon with a couple of loose strokes. 

“No complaints,” Jon says, voice filled with laughter again. “That’s just fine.” Tommy suspects it will be more than fine in a minute, when he gets his other hand back to on Jon’s ass. “See, this is better than basketball, right?”

Tommy reaches around to smack him on the ass, hard. “Watch it. I can go get the paddle again, if you haven’t learned your lesson.” 

Jon grins. “See, you say that like it’s not an inducement to misbehave. It’s really a, you know, a very perverse and backwards set of reinforcements we’ve set up for ourselves, here.”

“I’ll show you perverse,” Tommy says, but he isn’t really going to let Jon goad him into rolling them, which he suspects is the goal here. “Grab me the lube, would you?”

It’s a stretch for Jon, with his knees still around Tommy’s hips, and Tommy enjoys watching it and not helping at all. “Very good boy,” Tommy says when Jon hands it to him, because he wants to watch Jon’s eyes go dark and unfocused. 

Jon knows how to line their hips up so Tommy can fist both of their cocks in one hand, which is perfect, because it gives him a free hand to curl around the heated skin of Jon’s ass and just squeeze. “Ah, fuck,” Jon mutters, tucking his face into Tommy’s shoulder. “That’s so good.” 

“Bet it is,” Tommy says, although he’s never personally experienced it. He’s not sure he’d enjoy it. But this side of it—he fucking loves this side of it. “You want more?”

“Yeah,” Jon sighs, and Tommy digs his fingertips in, scratches with the corners of his nails, rubs the callouses of his palms across Jon’s skin. Jon’s not keeping himself still anymore, hips shoving into Tommy’s hand, arms trembling where they’re holding him up. “Tommy, Tommy, _please_ —don’t stop, please.” 

There’s no fucking way Tommy’s stopping. His whole body feels electrified from the way Jon’s reacting, from the way he’s making Jon beg for more. He squeezes with both hands—too hard, maybe, but both of them are too desperate to care, and Jon stiffens up, cock spurting, teeth grabbing at Tommy’s skin. 

“Jesus,” Tommy says, and, “Best boy,” and “Oh, fuck, I—” and then he can’t speak, just fists himself too hard and too fast and comes all over his own belly. 

Jon collapses sideways onto one of Tommy’s arms, and rolls forward so he’s half on top of Tommy with his ass safely off the bedspread. “Hiya,” Jon says. It almost sounds shy. 

“Hi yourself,” Tommy mumbles. He turns his head enough to kiss the nearest bit of Jon, the soft fuzz of his hairline. “Feeling good, are we?”

“Maybe,” Jon says, drawing out the first syllable into a teasing lilt. “Sure. I guess.”

Tommy would bite him, but that would require moving. “Oh, you _guess_.”

Jon laughs, tucking his chin on top of Tommy’s head. “I mean, it was _maybe_ one of the better sexual experiences of my life,” he says. “I suppose. If we’re counting.”

“We’re definitely counting.” Tommy’s cheeks hurt from smiling. “Not much disincentive for you to let me watch the semis in peace, huh?” 

“There are good alternatives,” Jon says. “I could suck you off while you watch, I bet.”

Tommy laughs. “Yeah, that wouldn’t be distracting at all.” 

“I’m just trying to be proactive, here, Tommy. Solving the problems. You shooting down my good ideas really isn’t contributing to the kind of open atmosphere that allows brainstorming to flourish.” 

“Except my ideas are the ones with merit. I had some terrific ideas today, for instance. Laid out some terrific and cruel choices.”

“That wasn’t a real choice at all. You just like the paddle, you sadist,” Jon says.

“It took a lot of practice to get good with it! I don’t like to waste my skills.” Tommy grins at him, leans down to kiss his shoulder. “Anyway, you like it too.” 

“I hate it and I hate you,” Jon says, shoving in closer against Tommy’s chest. “We should eat those tamales now.”

“We left them on the coffee table,” Tommy says, scrunching up his face in realization. 

“Oh, shit. Well, they’re gone. We should probably check on Pundit.” Jon wriggles again, and then amends, “You should probably go check on Pundit. I’m not moving.” 

Tommy levers himself out from under Jon. “Predictable,” he says. It’s fond, at least in his own ears. He pats Jon’s ass, not too hard, but enough that Jon jerks in place. “I’ll come back up in a minute and put some cream on you.” 

“And bring me my phone,” Jon says, in what he probably thinks is a helpful tone. 

“We’ll see,” Tommy tells him, laughing. “By the way, I got a new paddle the other day. One of those mean ones with holes in the wood.”

“The one in your underwear drawer?” Jon asks. “I saw that.”

Tommy supposes he isn’t surprised Jon regularly pokes around in his underwear drawer. “Might use it on you for snooping. I could be hiding actual private things, you know.” 

“Sure,” Jon says. “Your copy of Atlas Shrugged, your collection of softcore hentai—”

Tommy does not think softcore hentai exists, unless he’s been very misled as to what hentai is. “We’ll talk about this after Pundit goes out,” he says, grabbing his shorts off the floor and slipping them on. “I think we may have to schedule some time for you to apologize for violating my privacy.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Jon rolls his shoulders, stretches out his feet and his toes. “Go check on our dog, please, she doesn’t react well to spicy food.”

Tommy never gets tired of _our dog_. “Don’t move until I get back.” 

“I’ll be as obedient as ever,” Jon says, and Tommy, laughing, slips out of the room.


End file.
